


Making Past

by Madoshi, Serinah



Series: POI in English [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 1985, Action, Adventure, Age Difference Kink, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, First Time, John Reese is not actually a cyborg, M/M, Mild Irony, Romance, Spoilers for s03e19, Young Harold Finch, is irresistible, terminator references, was the initial reason to write this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/pseuds/Serinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1985, but Mr. Reese doesn’t need anybody’s clothes or a bike. What he needs is to save a Harold Wren who is hunted by Decima killers from the future. However, young Harold is not going to make his task easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Терминатор](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290505) by [Fandom_Person_of_Interest_2014](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Person_of_Interest_2014/pseuds/Fandom_Person_of_Interest_2014), [Madoshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi). 



> Most of translation work was done by Madoshi, but Serinah made so much heavy editing that it would be unfair not to list her as a co-author. All the remaining mistakes are the remaining mistakes :D We are both in no way native speakers, so if someone wants to give us a hand with proofreading, we will be forever grateful!
> 
> Some potential trigger warnings may be spoiler-ish, so they are in the very end of the end-notes.

A well-chewed rubber doggy toy fell on an empty stairwell. That was the beginning.

***

Harold almost missed the agent on his way out.

He wouldn't have noticed him at all — despite everything, the guy did decent job of blending in. But Harold had five years to get used to the occasional cold breath of the FBI at the back of his neck. Things like that work wonders with one's perception. A tall greying man in a good suit had no business in their modest office building at this time of day. Even their investors wore jeans when they came here for the meetings. Besides, the man's appearance made imaginary bells inside Harold's head ding.

But somehow the idea of the stranger being a CIA or FBI didn’t sit well with Harold.

First of all, he was alone. Harold had enough experience to learn that the government officers usually came in pairs. Secondly... that was a lot harder to explain.

The man seemed bored, idly looking at the price-list on the opposite office door. It was the office of Harry Crow, a private investigator. He was currently absent, Harold suspected, being heavily drunk somewhere due to "a rough couple of weeks."

"Excuse me, sir," the agent said to Harold as soon as he stepped out of his and Nathan’s office, "Do you know when Mr. Crow might return?"

"I haven't a slightest idea," said Harold and reached to adjust his glasses but aborted the nervous gesture.

The man looked at him with well disguised surprise, but didn't respond. He didn't try to follow Harold.

 

***

 

_"How could you lose him?" asked Reese quietly._

_He wasn't pressing Fusco to the wall, wasn't tugging at his shirt collar so that the collar dug into the detective's neck, wasn't even looming. He just stared at Lionel very attentively, but his glare seem to suck all the oxygen from the room._

_"What was I supposed to do?" He’ll kill me anyway, Lionel thought, at least I won't go like a damned pansy. "There were ten men armed and armoured to the gills and me with a damn colt! How was I supposed to save Professor? If I fired, they'd shoot me dead and him for a collateral!”_

_Reese looked as if he was going to say something so Fusco launched his attack with all the desperation of a doomed man. He almost even poked Reese in the chest, but at the last second decided not to risk his finger._

_"You think you could’ve done better if it been you in there? You know what, Superman? Even you’d have tough time against ten well-trained, well-equipped killers with a civilian behind your back! They would’ve put you down like a scarecrow, and we’d be even more screwed right now, so stop harassing me and use your spycraft or something to figure out how to get him back."_

_"I'm thinking." Reese spoke deceivingly softly, unimpressed. "You were closer than anybody else, down at the FBI storage, Lionel, and I'm trying to retrieve actionable data from you. Where were Vigilance people going? Did they talk of their plans? What did they look like? But you, Lionel, didn’t see or hear anything useful and now we’ve lost Finch, we have nothing."_

_"Don't argue, puppies," singed-songed Coco Puffs, kind of on their side at the moment. "Not everything is lost. She," Fusco sure as hell heard the capital letter in the pronoun, "has a card up her sleeve. The awakening of the Samaritan will help us."_

_"What the hell is Samaritan?" Fusco asked, but nobody was listening. The Wonderboy and the crazy one were busy drilling holes into each other with their eyes._

 

***

 

The second time Harold spotted his tail was in the library early in the evening.

He was alone because Nathan had gone to Vermont to try and talk some potential investors into supporting their project. Harold didn't really believe in the success of this endeavour so he stayed in New York. Now he went to the local library, "to work", as he’d told himself, but really to read Paul Anderson and wallow in self-recrimination.

The green lamps and smell of paper dust had never let him down before, but today he couldn't seem to forget their latest failure. If only... Why on Earth was it those bastards at Microsoft to have won the tender and not them! Yes, the other company’s product was simpler, but it was also full of design flaws... Hands must have been greased, Harold decided grimly. To successfully market a product you need not only to research the code, but also the human element; to drill it down to the caps and screws, to inspect the connections... Something that Harold had never learned to do well. He should try to do better. Nathan said books couldn't teach you everything, but books do teach...

He mouthed his pen and even started to swing on the chair as was his childhood habit. He flinched only when a passing librarian eyed him disapprovingly. Harold apologized immediately, even raised a little from the chair... And at this very moment he noticed the salt-and-pepper guy. His too expensive suit didn't stand out as much in the library but still drew some attention.

The man was reading a newspaper looking so absorbed in his task that there was no doubt about his occupation.

"Well," Harold thought with a bleak resignation, "guess we’ve been having too little trouble lately. But still, why is he alone? Or do I just keep missing the rest of them?"

He had to leave, but he didn't want to. He hysterically wanted to let it all go to hell and give up, and hand himself over for a prison term.

But Nathan. Nathan would be caught up in all that too. Harold couldn't let him down, especially now.

So he had to be proactive.

Harold mentally thanked himself for building a rapport with the librarians, which was a skill he’d mastered back at school. Last winter he’d repaired the heater in the modern literature section, so Rose Kailey, the supervisor, was only too ready to believe him when he pointed at Reese and softly explained that he was the father of his ex-girlfriend, please don't think anything, we just went to the movies couple of times, but her father...

Mrs. Kailey, a mother of two sons, shook her finger at him but let him into the inner part of the library. From there it was a piece of cake to get out using side stairs...

It would have been. Only on the first floor Harold came to a stop, being faced by two other men in suits, this time cheap ones.

"I'm screwed," thought Harold, trying to step back up the stairs. His back collided with an obstacle which hadn't been there before. Some kind of stone or metal, probably.

"Looking for a restroom, guys?" asked the obstacle in a hoarse whisper. "Sorry, it's personnel only."

Harold turned around and saw — yes, that was the same salt-and-pepper guy who had been tracking him since morning. Harold gulped and prepared to... well, he didn't exactly know what he should prepare himself for. For being shot? Handcuffed?

But the salt-and-pepper didn't take law-enforcing or illegal actions towards Harold. He just shouldered past him on the stairs (Harold had a feeling that this guy could have lifted him and moved like a vase if need be). One of the bad suits tried to hit him... or even succeeded... or tried, but missed... In short, Harold didn't understand what had happened, but a couple of moments later both bad suits were resting on the stairs. 

Harold rushed back up, but the grey-haired guy managed to catch his elbow.

"Don't, Harold," he said. "I want to help you."

"Who are you and what do you want from me?" Harold tried to speak calmly but his voice still broke at the end.

"My name is John Reese," he said, "and I'm going to be your friend. Someday."

Harold chuckled nervously. "Is this the way they recruit now?"

"No, this is literal," the guy shook his head. "I'm from the future. There, in the future, we are friends."

Now Harold was laughing, dry and sardonic. The echo in the empty stairwell was especially heavy.

"There’s an apocalypse, intelligent computers have taken over the world, and only I can save humanity?"

Reese grinned crookedly.

"I forgot this movie already exists. Yes, we have intelligent computers trying to enslave the mankind. And you're the only one who can prevent it."

"Why me?"

“Because you built the first one. Now let's hurry. I've no idea how many goons they sent after you."

 

***

  
_Sometimes Root felt sorry for people. Sometimes — but it was long ago and therefore not true — she was even afraid of them. But she wasn't afraid of John Reese now. Maybe someone else would be, after one look at this dangerously pursed marble-white lips and deceivingly restful hands ("probability of violence fifteen percent", her Goddess’ voice whispering in her ear)._

_But this dog wouldn't bite. Dogs could turn hostile without their masters, but she won't pet this one against his hair. However unpleasant, he is useful to Harold and, more importantly, to the Machine._

_The soft pulsation at the base of her ear told her the same. Everything is alright, my girl._

_"The tears in the fabric of reality happened out of the blue," Root spoke softly. She always prefers softness, the world being too full of sharp edges. "She didn't expect this. She doesn't know the nature of the holes. Probably, the accumulation of the data led to serious incongruities in the time-space continuum... but I'm not a scientist, John, I do not understand what she says. Or rather, I understand only a part. And the important part is that these holes, portals of sorts, can transfer us — if they can — back to a fixed period in the past. Back to the moment the idea of Machine and Samaritan was conceived, the moment they first put their mark on the informational structure of the Universe. And Greer decided to take a risk."_

_"What risk?"_

_John Reese was giving a good impression of a giant stone idol. Only barbarians are afraid of stones, Root told herself._

_She tilted her head, the picture of attentiveness. She liked mannerisms, adored their theatrical charm. Besides, she felt she should remind Reese he wasn’t talking with Root... At least not only with Root. Otherwise, a primitive creature that he is could forget._

_Suddenly the soft pulsing stopped. She felt cold as if she was alone again, and no guns or explosives or contempt were going to save her. The Machine thinks fast, extremely fast. If a pause in her speech was noticeable to a human… Root couldn’t even imagine how complicated computations She was processing at the moment._

_"He’s sent several teams to kill Harold in the past, about thirty years back, before he started designing the Machine. So that Arthur Claypool would have been the only one..."_

_"Is it possible?"_

_And that was the moment when Root got became really scared. Not of John Reese, but of his question. Because the Machine's answer was short and to the point._

_"Yes," quietly repeated Root._

 

***

 

Harold had hijacked cars before, in college, as a result of several unfortunate bets with Nate and Artie. They typically left the old buckets a couple of blocks from the crime scenes and even notified the police, squeezing their noses to change voices. Nathan could make a decent British accent.

But Harold had never tried this in the middle of the day (or early evening), on the busy street right across the library!

The visitor from the future, or possibly just a psycho or a scammer, Harold hadn't made up his mind yet, behaved as if nothing was the matter. It took him the total of two seconds to force open the front door, and three more seconds to cross the ignition wires. Then he had the audacity to tell Harold:

"Fasten your seatbelt."

"I thought you only had flyers in the future or at least everything was automated," Harold said acerbically while John Reese was driving out of the packed parking lot with one hand on the wheel and expertly careful glances over his shoulder.

The visitor snorted.

"What year do you think I'm from?"

"Two thousand twenty?" risked Harold. "Thirty?"

"Fourteen. The very beginning."

“But you are not really a cyborg?”

“Do I look like one?”

“Actually, you do.”

The man glared at him but didn’t deem it worthy of response.

"So you were born..." Harold quickly approximated the age.

"Twelve years ago,” he nodded. “Right now he — I — should be living with my mother in Colorado."

Harold looked at the visitor askance, with deep distrust. He’d got used to giving away only small increments of information about himself. Logically, the habits of a superagent from the future shouldn't be so far removed from his own. On the other hand, if they were friends there, in the future, it meant that future Harold knew about the mother in Colorado and everything else...

Assuming Reese really was from the future.

Which led Harold to a distressing thought.

"You know my name?"

Reese flashed him a crooked, unpleasant smile. Harold felt goosebumps crawling down his arms.

"I know several. For example, right now you use mainly Harold Wren."

Harold did everything in his power to hide his relief. He probably failed. Besides, Reese could have lied.

"What else do you know about me?" he demanded. "Prove that you are indeed from the future!"

"Nothing much," Reese shrugged. "We’ve known each other for only three years. And people change. But, most likely, you love Dickens and dislike good ol' Ham, and your favourite childhood author is Jack London, which you're a little shy of. You are always the first to criticize Conan Doyle, but you re-read his "The White Company" when you are upset. You keep the first edition of "The Foundation", but you prefer the Amber Chronicles by Roger Zelazny... Or has he finished it yet? And..." John put two fingers into the pocket of his dress shirt and fished out a notebook page folded in half. "Before I came here I was handed over the overview of today's football game, scores and minutes. We just need to wait until it ends."

The paper was absolutely unremarkable to the touch and smelled like an ordinary paper. Apparently, it was torn from a notebook with thin blue checked lines. The margins were narrow, one had "Ingram Future Technologies, since 1983" printed on it in small letters.

Looking at the inscription, pale blue, almost fading into the white, Harold realized he believed Reese.

The guy also got it right about the books... Of course, any library worker could dig up as much information about Harold's preferences and deduce the rest.

Suddenly he felt an extremely strong urge to smoke. With trembling fingers Harold started to search his trousers pockets for a lighter and cigarettes.

Reese turned his head off the road and stared at Harold in deepest undisguised shock. Harold couldn't have imagined this wooden face was capable of such a demonstration.

"What?" asked Harold a little warily.

"You smoke?!"

He sounded just like Mrs. Davis from their parish (she always stopped his father for a chat after the service).

"Want one?" asked Harold through choked laughter. "It's only 'Lucky Strike', though..."

Nathan would laugh at him for "girly" cigarettes, but Harold liked the taste.

"I don't smoke," Reese shook his head. "Bad for your health."

"But extremely enjoyable," dismissed Harold, lighting his cigarette.

This stranger from the future had an incredible skill of showing his disapproval with just his glare, Mrs. Davis could learn a couple of tricks from him.

It even got to Harold, to a point. After Will was born, Nathan also started to speak about quitting, said it was no good to smoke in front of the child. Harold wondered, if the visitor knew Nathan. Or would Nathan and Harold have a fallout by two thousand fourteen? But IFT would exist, apparently, would even have corporate notebooks printed...

The cigarette was only halfway finished when Harold realized he was not afraid of Reese anymore, not even a little.

"Where are we going, by the way?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Reese raised his brow. "We need to wait it out for the next twenty-four hours, until the portal is closed. I’m sure you have a safe house somewhere in Manhattan."

Harold huffed.

"I don't know who you are taking me for, mister, but I only have one apartment, in the Bronx, and I wouldn't call it particularly safe".

"Great," muttered Reese. "No money either?"

"About fifty bucks in my wallet." Harold shrugged. "Some more in the apartment. And about five hundred in the bank."

In reality he had up to five thousand on different accounts.

"No," Reese cut him off. "We can't be seen at your place or in banks. Let's hope dollars from my time will do. And about your partner, Nathan Ingram. Where is he?"

"In Vermont, on business," Harold answered suspiciously. "You don't need to drag him into this."

"I don’t intend to. I'd prefer him further away, but it might work. What about his family? He already has a son, doesn't he?"

"Olivia took Will to her family in California for a month."

"Good."

"Oh my god," murmured Harold. "Are they in danger because of me?"

"Might be. I would’ve tried it. I have no reason to believe Decima won’t."

Harold felt cold sweat break on his back.

...The dollars in Reese's wallet seemed too colorful, even if the design hadn’t changed much, and the paper felt strange. Harold looked at the dates of issue with his head spinning and felt the reality of the situation sinking in at last.

Plus three more credit cards, also unfamiliar kind... And — holy moly — all had built-in microchips!

"This money won't do," decided Harold, admiring the cards. "I'll be damned, I would never thought they could make them so small..."

"Here is Harold I know at last," murmured Reese. "OK, I know how to get us some cash."

He took a sharp turn, and in about ten minutes Harold realized they were headed to Brighton.

"Why there?" he asked in surprise.

"Is it a criminal turf yet?"

"Are you a criminal?" Harold adjusted his glasses nervously.

He was absolutely sure now that in the future it was Nathan who introduced him to Reese. Harold had told him many times to quit his questionable alliances. It looked less likely that Reese could be _his_ friend by the minute.

"Worse," Reese bared his teeth. "I used to work for CIA."

"Used to?" Harold grumbled. "And after CIAt?"

"After that I worked for an eccentric genius who made me do unspeakable things. Wash his dog, for example."

Harold wondered how dangerous would it be to force the door open with his shoulder at the next stop and roll out of the car just before the light changed. He didn't know if Reese had a weapon, though, and whether he would shoot Harold. He’d said his task was to protect him, but maybe protecting a limping Harold was even easier?

At this point Reese demonstrated his ability to read minds — or just to notice with his side vision that Harold had been eyeing the car door.

"Please, don't try to run," he said. "It will either waste our valuable time, or you will succeed and get yourself killed. And then I'll be dead too, of course."

"Why would you be dead?” Harold frowned.

"You will save my life in the future," explained Reese. "Some vested interest here."

"Listen," Harold just couldn't bear this anymore. "Are you seriously trying to convince me that it's possible to change the future through the past? What about the issue of paradox? Or are parallel worlds created every time?"

"No idea," Reese was stubbornly looking at the road. "Maybe it is. Maybe they are."

"Who has the idea, then? What do your scientists say on the matter?"

"Nothing. By the time I was sent here, time travel had existed for about four hours. I could end up smashed in a quantum soup. If I'm here, it means that on a fundamental level some changes are possible. At least, the supercomputer you built told me they are. Since there are no other experts, I have to trust her."

"Her? Did I program a gender into a computer?! Why on Earth would I do that?!"

"Well, I don't know what you tech geeks do in your labs..."

Harold blushed hotly and considered bashing his head against the glass. Just for the sake of it.

He still knew almost nothing about the future except that the world will be at the edge of a cyberwar, Harold will somehow be saving lives of unpleasant guys like Reese and, apparently, turning into a disreputable senile pervert. How old will he be by then, fifty-four? An old geezer.


	2. Chapter 2

_The portal resembled a giant prism set up in the middle of the room, and sun rays broke coming through it. Everything on the other side looked like being moved aside a bit, shifted a little. Like that experiment in a science class, when was it, the eighth grade? Sam had let most of the school curriculum evaporate from her mind ages ago, at least the useless parts._  
  
_Reese was eyeing the prism with the same amount of distrust as she. But Sam already knew he would step into it. The emotional vulnerability and all that shit._  
  
_Sometimes — about once in a great while — Shaw almost envied Harold and him. She’d never had anything like that, not even with Cole. Well, maybe he’d had it with her, but she hadn't been aware of it. More often she didn't bother with envy. Definitely not right now._  
  
_Shaw picked up one of Bear's toys — an old one, with faded color. Bear looked at her excitedly, but she told him to sit and threw the toy into the portal._  
  
_The toy disappeared without any fireworks._

_Bear let out a short and surprised whine. Sam silently promised to buy him a dozen best toys later (the noisy ones, for Finch’s special pleasure)._  
  
_"How many teams did you say they sent?" asked Reese, deceivingly businesslike._  
  
_Shaw saw he wasn't businesslike at all, he was practically vibrating._  
  
_"We know about one for certain. But it’s probably two or even three.” She shrugged. When she turned to John, her smile was gentle and her voice full of compassion. “John, I know you don't trust me, but I wouldn't lie about Harold's safety."_

_"Three teams could be a problem for Reese," Sam interjected. "I'll go too."_  
  
_"Sadly, my dear, I can't let you go and play right now. There is work which needs to be done here.”_

_Those impossible eyes like warm honey..._  
  
_Sam felt something moving, tingling and trembling in her chest, — not for the first time — together with rising suspicion. Reese seemed to agree with her there. Their eyes met. Root was definitely hiding something, twisting the truth, setting John up..._  
  
_The telephone on Harold's desk rang._

 

***

 

Harold didn't know how extorting money and weapons from the drug cartel was supposed to look like, but he would never have imagined it included such boring activities as sitting and smoking in a car parked at the back door of a warehouse.

After parking the car, Reese stared at Harold at length and asked, "Will you run if I leave you in the car?"

"What will you do if I say I will?" Harold snorted. "Tie me up?"

"I might," Reese smiled evilly. "You tied me up once."

("Should have used chains," thought Harold spitefully. "Hold on, what does he mean I tied him up?")

"But I wouldn't like to start our relationship on the wrong foot," the ex-CIA continued. "If you promise not to run, I'll believe you."

Harold did his best to convey his scepticism with a look.

"Come on, Harold. I know you think I’m fun."

"Like a shark in a kiddie pool," said Harold grimly.

Reese raised his eyebrow.

"Well, the decision is yours, then. If you take the car, you'll cut off my exit root. And I'll be cut to pieces by an angry Russian mob. It’s unlikely I’ll manage to kill everybody.”

Although his tone indicated he could be joking, Harold suddenly felt seriously scared.

"Are you really going to kill them?"

"Only if I have to," John chuckled, got out and slammed the car door shut.

Harold instantly took the driver's seat. He thought about changing gears, turning his tail and running. He was still arguing with himself, weighing his options, spinning millions pros and cons in his head, when the warehouse door Reese had just vanished behind opened again. The visitor from the future appeared at the doorstep, followed by a man in a leather jacket (a small wonder considering the day's heat). Harold didn't have a clear view, but he didn't doubt the stranger had some kind of a firearm. Something more serious than a handgun, judging by the length of the barrel. Or maybe it wasn’t a barrel but a silencer?

The equation defied a solution as it was, and now Harold had to deal with one more variable, a completely wild one. With wide, fearful eyes Harold watched the scene, knowing the man from the future would be killed before his eyes, and he would be able to do nothing, absolutely nothing...

John Reese winked at him.

Harold blinked in surprise and missed the moment when John started to move. It was clear, though, that he somehow managed to either kick his guard's kneecap or to dislocate the opponent’s elbow with his shoulder... A long-barreled gun changed hands; the guy in leather dropped into the dust. Reese adjusted his jacket and, armed now, entered the building again.

Harold felt like pinching himself.

Reese returned to the car in about seven minutes, with a big black duffel hanging over his shoulder and a smallish automatic rifle that he probably hadn’t managed to fit into the bag. Both the bag and the rifle went on the rear seat, which, on the one hand, was quite fortunate, and on the other hand, still made Harold largely uncomfortable.

"Won't give him the wheel," Harold thought with sudden determination. “I didn’t leave him, true, but I won't let him drive!"

But Reese didn't try to claim the driver's seat. He calmly took the shotgun (not the literal one) and stretched his legs. Against his will, Harold followed the two miles of them with his gaze. Reese drawled lazily, "It took me so long only because I didn't kill them. They're just tied up. We can call the police from the closest payphone."

"I don't give a damn if you killed these bandits or not," Harold told the almost-truth and tried to mask the receding tremor in his hands by throwing the cigarette butt out of the window. He was rewarded by another surprised look. "Maybe now you can explain what is going on, who is trying to kill me and why?"

"I'll explain," Reese paused. "But first we have to change the car and rent a room. The owner has probably reported these wheels by now."

"A room where? In a motel?" Harold asked, starting the car.

An awkward idea came to his mind, not relevant to anything. What would it be like to sleep in the same room with a trained killer?

"I was thinking more in the lines of a Plaza suite." Reese yawned. "Expensive hotels are simpler to hide into. And we have about fifty grand in the bag, I didn't count.”

Harold almost hit the gate driving out of the yard.

 

***

_A mechanical voice in the phone said, "Probability. Of. Admin's. Death. Fifty. Eight. Percent."_  
  
_John squeezed the handset, hurting his fingers. People like Harold can't be trusted on the front lines. They are too eager; they are willing to raise a gun to prevent a child’s death, but incapable of firing it. And Harold specifically is able to order people around, all self-confident and composed; one may even think he actually knows what he is doing._  
  
_But he doesn't know. Not in the least._  
  
_"You mean you don't know?" he growled into the phone, forgetting for a moment he wasn't talking to a human he could intimidate._  
  
_"Affirmative."_  
  
_"You think I should go alone?"_  
  
_"Probability. Of. Success. In. Case. Of. Safe. Transition. Sixty. Percent.” Pause. “Probability. Of. Fatal. Outcome. During. Transition. Undetermined."_  
  
_"You think I'll get smashed by the fourth dimension and you don't want to risk Shaw?"_  
  
_Sam glared at him disdainfully._

_"Affirmative. Probability. Of. Saving. Admin. In. This. Time. Substantial."_  
  
_He got it. The Machine wanted to save Harold from Vigilance and had somehow decided that Sam was better suited for this mission than John. Or rather, she decided that John was a better fit for a travel into the past... Not least because he was considerably older and probably had more memories about the eighties._  
  
_John didn't know if he even believed in this unscientific fiction. But he seemed to believe enough. Just one more crazy twist..._  
  
_John was far from making The Machine his god as Root did. He also didn't trust it, but he did trust her maker, with the strength that, quite frankly, frightened him. He'd probably be better off not trusting Harold. Finch had a habit of concealing the truth and draw the fire to himself, trying to protect the ones closest to him, and that behavior had a tendency to backfire nastily..._  
  
_"I'll go," he said and hanged up the phone._  
  
_"Great." Root tilted her head again, as if listening to something. "You'll find yourself in 1985. The address you need..."_

_***_

Not only Harold had never stayed in Plaza — why would he? — he hadn’t even been in its conference rooms for a business meeting. Of course, marble floors, leather armchairs and gigantic chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were not enough to make him feel uncomfortable... Maybe five years ago, just after arriving from Iowa, he would have been a bit flustered, but definitely not now. However, when John Reese firmly took his elbow and pulled him to the registration desk and a pretty girl smiling behind it, Harold realized that his answering smile was a little strained.

"We'd like to have a suite," said Reese. This time he managed to keep his low, hoarse voice almost normal, and his smile not intimidating. Harold did a double-take at this miracle.

"I have to apologize, sir," the girl seemed genuinely unhappy. "We don't have any free suites or even a room with two beds."

"We'll take your master suite or whatever."

"I'm truly sorry, but we can't offer you any! We’re having guests from all over the world staying for the New York Fashion Week alongside with several other major events, almost every room was booked in advance! We only have a Bridal suite available, because the reservation for it was canceled less than half an hour ago..."

"Well," Reese chuckled. "It's fate, isn't it, Harry, dear?"

Harold gulped, not sure how to react. He was almost certain Reese was joking, or hamming it up, but what if...

The girl tensed a little, her smile grew a bit artificial, but her tone didn't change.

"Very well, sir. How long are you staying?”

"Two days. We’ll pay in cash."

When all formalities were done with, Reese took Harold by the elbow again and didn't let it go all the while the bellhop was showing them to their room, although his grip felt more confining than romantic. Harold grew more nervous and frustrated — yes, that was the right word — by the second.

"If he tries something funny for real, I'll kick him in the crotch," Harold thought desperately, "run off into the hall and push the fire alarm button."

He understood that these measures were hardly viable against an ex-CIA, but it was all he could think of. However, when the suite door closed behind them, Reese let go of his arm and took two steps away.

"Sorry for the show. Two guys, obviously in a hurry and paying in cash, could be memorable. The staff would start to wonder. This way they have their answers right away. If I decide to sleep, I'll be fine on the sofa."

Harold had to gulp again. Now, after the danger was over, he couldn't deny that he was... not interested exactly, but Reese's behaviour didn't feel as shocking as it could have. All in all, he had _been_ quite adventurous in college, and there was this one time he and Nathan had decided to never talk about...

He briefly wondered, how it would feel to sleep in the same _bed_ with a professional killer...

"I'm a bit affronted that I was taken for your... boy-toy," said Harold primly, adjusting his glasses.

Reese chuckled. "I had been taken for yours."

"Have you and… that other Harold done that a lot?"

"A couple of times," Reese said from the bathroom. He’d started the tour around the suite immediately after entering, looking out from the windows, opening all cupboards and closets and checking behind doors. "If it's not possible to pose as a boss and an assistant, there are situations when two men, especially as different as we are, attract less attention as a couple."

"I gather the future society is more free-spirited?"

"Not always. But gays are not as scandalous anymore. And we did elect a black president."

Harold whistled.

He was a little ashamed of his distrust, but at the same time he couldn't help thinking — would his future self tell Reese about his... adolescent experiments? Or maybe even... but who knows what aspects of Harold's personal life Reese was familiar with and in what capacity?

The large convertible sofa in the living room looked much more comfortable than the narrow cot in Harold's apartment. And the gigantic bed taking up the bedroom looked downright luxurious. The suite consisted of two rooms, albeit not very big. There were white roses on the coffee table, and a bottle of champagne was chilling in a bucket full of ice near the bed.

Reese lifted the bottle, examined it sceptically and placed it back into the bucket.

"Want a drink?" he asked Harold. "They should also have some scotch in the bar."

"What about you?"

"I don't drink at work. But you need to relax."

Surprisingly, the idea seemed to have merit.

Harold looked around the suite grimly. No books, of course, except, probably, an obligatory Bible in the bedroom. What are they going to do in here? Just sit and stare at each other the whole evening, with a working TV in the background?

He painfully didn't want to stay alone with Reese. Somehow he felt uncomfortable in his own skin, as if something was scratching him from the inside. Especially after their questionable romantic walk with arms intertwined.

"Do we have to stay in the whole evening? It didn't look like anybody followed us."

"I don't know how many teams they sent after you," Reese sounded calm, reasonable and patient, but Harold recognized hidden frustration.

"This is not your future full of surveillance cameras," said Harold with the confidence he didn't feel. "If they can't find us in this suite, they won't find us in a bar."

"I may agree on a hotel bar." Reese nodded. "But as far as I know, you don't like bars."

"Maybe in thirty years I won't," Harold pursed his lips stubbornly. "And not the hotel bar, its usual clientele is dreadful." That was another piece of his "bookish" knowledge. "I know a bar a couple of blocks from here."

"You've been there?"

"Nathan has. Recommended it."

In reality Nathan had recommended him nothing of the sorts, knowing Harold's usual opinion of such establishments. But once, out of pure mischief, Harold had planted a beacon in Nathan’s case, which he hadn't found for two weeks. During that time, he’d spent the total of four hours in a bar two blocks from Plaza. Which spoke volumes.

Reese seemed hesitant.

"Am I your prisoner?" asked Harold. "Or perhaps a hostage?"

The visitor from the future clenched his jaw in visible frustration, then shook his head.

"Let's go."  
  
_***_  
  
_The boy was different._  
  
_Root gave John only the address of an office building and some vague guidelines. He didn't see an IFT sign on the facade — because it wasn't there. But he did see a sign for a "private investigator H. Crowe". It made him mentally stand to attention for a moment — he remembered that alias well._  
  
_So when he saw a boy in glasses coming out of an unremarkable door, he was actually caught unawares. If the boy hadn’t opened his mouth, Reese would probably never have recognized him. But this voice, a little monotonous and extremely cultured, hadn't changed much over thirty years. Except, young Harold’s speech was a lot less fancy._  
  
_He also dressed more simply. No bespoke suits, instead, he wore light trousers, a dress shirt with short sleeves, and a quilted sleeveless jacket according to the fashion of the decade... He looked much younger than his twenty five, as if he’d just graduated from high school. No surprise there. Harold never seemed to look his age._  
  
_His relatively long hair John expected._  
  
_His handsomeness he did not._  
  
_Yes, Harold appeared to be a genuinely handsome young man with sharp, expressive features and attentive eyes. John hadn't seen that on the pictures. But pictures rarely conveyed the charm of changeable faces._  
  
_He also hadn't expected Harold to smoke. Though, if he thought about it, in the eighties and nineties nearly everybody did. For some reason, John had never started smoking, not even in the military, so he had a very limited knowledge of tobacco brands. That nervous inhale Harold made when offering him the cigarette — John thought that later (if he'd have later, that is) he would look it up on the Internet; what's so unfortunate about Lucky Strike. Or he’d ask the real Harold._  
  
_Because the boy was a fake._  
  
_He was too twitchy, too flippant, too scared and almost without a shred of self-control. He even seemed stupider than his older version which could definitely not be the case. And also surprisingly — John couldn't find the correct word right away — arrogant. He didn’t even seem to be worried about collateral damage._  
  
_This Harold was almost like a chemical irritant. Every word, every movement that looked similar but was still not quite the same — it all grated. In about thirty uneasy, even outright difficult years, full of losses and grief, he would become the Harold John knew and loved. But right now the thirty years seemed like an unbridgeable chasm._  
  
_Still, he would become the real Harold. If John was good enough during the next twenty-four hours and wouldn't let him end up killed._  
  
_John couldn't show his attitude, though. He needed to win a modicum of Harold's trust, he couldn't protect an unwilling principal. John had just the one advantage: this Harold hadn't had enough time yet to cultivate his natural mistrust into a hard-core paranoia. On the other hand, though, the paranoia of the grown up Harold was his additional line of defence._  
  
_By the time his young “client” manipulated him into going to a bar, John had already realized it was going to be a very difficult twenty-four hours._


	3. Chapter 3

Bars, typically being congregations of massively inadequate and inebriated people, always made Harold feel uneasy. Especially if one considered that a billiard stick or a beer mug would make a pretty good weapon.

However, fear can undermine one’s ability to experience life. Harold had worked on managing his many fears, including social awkwardness, for years. Since high school he’s been going to places he’d never set his foot in of his own free will just as an exercise. That was the reason he initially got acquainted with Nathan: he thought this easy-going boy would make for an appropriate company. And well, he did… in more ways than one.

This particular bar looked neither better nor worse than other outlets of this kind. It had all the usual features accounted for: team pennants hanging from the ceiling, clouds of tobacco smoke, the kitchen reek and loud voices thick in the air… He could recognize that they were in the very heart of the Big Apple, not far from The Plaza, only by the expensive liquor behind the bartender’s back.

They took a table — not in the corner, but roughly in the middle of the dining space. There was an awkward moment when they both tried to claim the seat facing the door. Quickly John forfeited and sat half-turned towards the entrance. Only then did Harold realize that this new position allowed Reese to watch both exits, the main and the one for the staff.

Aaand… the point goes to Reese. Look at that.

Not wishing to talk, Harold took a look at the TV. It was muted, showing a report on an oil spill. He winced and turned away.

“I take it this problem is not solved in the future.”

“Not even close.”

“Are there any skyscrapers towering above ghettos and dark, dirty tunnels of streets beneath?”

Reese shrugged. “Sounds a bit like Shanghai. Mostly ‘there’ is just like ‘here’, though. Less hair gel.”

“Good to know. Also, I’m glad the Russians didn’t drop a bomb on us and New York is not lying in ruins,” Harold mused with artificial flippancy. “Not that New York couldn't use a little shake-up.”

Something flickered in Reese’s face, but he remained silent. Harold had a hunch that something very wrong would happen in the future, only Harold had no idea how to ask the right question. And he wasn’t sure Reese would answer him anyway.

A waiter came up to their table and Harold ordered a beer, while Reese asked for a soda, which seemed to somehow drain their conversation topics all at once.

“I don’t care,” Harold murmured. “The future problems are for the future to solve. How long do I have to put up with you?”

His anxiety management techniques didn’t seem to be working... Reese gave him a heavy stare from across the table, but deemed to reply.

“A day, twenty-four hours, give or take a couple. R… our associate told me that’s the period the portal is open. Then both Decima agents and I will be just thrown back into our time.”

Harold noticed John bypassing someone’s name and felt vaguely frustrated. As if he were in a group of friends with everybody discussing a movie or a book he hadn’t read yet or seen, trying not to spoil the major twist, occasionally letting things slip, then checking themselves…

It could even have been fun, if the thing he was in the dark about weren’t his own future.

“How am I doing then?” Harold asked. “I’m fifty-four. I must be a codger.”

Reese’s face grew long. “I’m forty-two,” he replied in something akin to bewilderment. “Do I look like a codger?”

He didn’t look like one _at all._

“Twelve years at the end of maturity can make quite a difference,” Harold felt like an idiot, but he wasn’t going to back down. “Well, nevermind. And how’s Nathan? Do you know him? Are we still friends?”

“I can’t tell you anything about the future,” came a reserved answer. “I was told that explicitly.”

“Listen,” Harold felt his frustration rising. “Either you can’t change the future, or you can. If the first is true, whatever you tell me won’t affect anything. And if it’s the second… The consequences of what is happening now are unpredictable anyway — everything might change thousand times over. So you can just tell me what happened”.

“No.” Reese said firmly.

Harold clenched his teeth. These military types and the red tape they are so fond of, he thought, especially when they can’t follow the actual reasons behind the rules…

But Reese continued, “Let’s assume the future is unchangeable. Whatever you do, however you try, it can’t be done. And if I tell you something, anything, for example, the date when the towers…” He cut himself short. “I know you, Harold. You won’t give up. You’ll do everything in your power to fix it, to save at least someone. And you won’t be able to. I won’t put this on you.”

Suddenly Harold’s mouth was dry and there was a dull heaviness in his head. Both Reese’s expression and tone were something Harold had never seen or heard in relation to himself. And he surely hadn’t expected something like that from this “Terminator” from the future.

But Reese spoke about a different Harold, not him, and that other Harold seemed to be somebody he didn’t feel like becoming in the least. What good could it possibly do, taking all the grief of the world upon his shoulders?

So Harold blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Do I become some kind of megalomaniac in my old age? Or will I manage to develop a saviour complex?”

It seemed to be an unfortunate turn of phrase: Reese visibly closed up and even leaned back in the chair, putting physical distance between himself and Harold. Damn. Harold had never been good at understanding people, at choosing the right words. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Reese, despite the fact the man practically kidnapped him and was generally a pain in the ass. It gave him some perverted pleasure, though: hurting someone by speaking bad about himself…

Fortunately, the waiter returned with their order, saving Harold from further reminiscence. The conversation, however, stilled beyond the point of recovery.

Nathan was a much better company for not-talking, especially when equipped with whisky or cognac. Each of them would be thinking their own thoughts without bothering the other. Sometimes they would idly exchange a couple of remarks and once again submerge into a quiet contemplation. That was, Harold assumed, what was called a comfortable silence.

With Reese it was completely different. Even the dark beer Harold loved, objectively rather good, seemed diluted and tasteless. Not even the fourth cigarette (quite an excess for Harold) made it better.

Trying to find something else to occupy his mind, he looked around. A boisterous group was sitting opposite their table: two men in football jerseys (not players), a woman in an identical jacket and two girls without any apparent tribal markings.

The scene was interesting enough for Harold to distract himself so thoroughly that he completely forgot about Reese.

In ten minutes or so he rose, moved his unfinished beer aside and with a brief “I’ll be a minute” stepped away from the table. Reese just nodded. Apparently he decided Harold was going to the bathroom and could be trusted to not try to escape through the window.

Harold went no further than the opposite table and addressed the men sitting there, “If you don’t call the taxi and send these young ladies home immediately, I’m calling the police.”

“What the...?” one of the men scowled.

“Hey, kid…” the other began.

“I saw you pouring a drug in their drinks,” said Harold. “I’m ready to act as a witness. Besides, I know your name,” he nodded at the first guy, “and your last,” he nodded at the other. “I also happen to know you both work at the construction site down the block as weldors, you’ve been talking too loud. Even if it is not enough to start an attempted rape case, I’ll make sure to ruin your reputation by informing your supervisor about what has nearly happened.”

“I’m the supervisor,” said the second guy, towering over the table with all his six and a half feet. 

Harold’s heart jumped. He had to raise his head to look the man into the eyes.

“Then, I believe, I’ll have to inform the construction director,” he said, willing his voice not to tremble.

At these words, as one could have expected, a fist was launched into his face. However, it didn’t reach its destination.

Mr. Reese, who had mysteriously appeared behind Harold’s shoulder, blocked the supervisor’s arm. Judging from what had happened in the library, this silent approach was probably Reese’s trademark.

“Is there a problem?” Reese asked the weldors quietly and very politely. “I heard something about a drug?”

One of the girls giggled drunkenly and dropped her head on the table. The other one was just blinking stupidly. They entered the drunken state very quickly, after half-pint each; even ten minutes ago both had looked lucid enough. That was what had drawn Harold’s attention in the first place.

But the woman in a jersey — she was older, probably around thirty, with a chock-full of curly hair — screeched, “What do you care, you son of a bitch! We’re just having fun! Beat it!”

The girl half-lying on the table laughed without lifting her head.

“I suggest you walk away peacefully,” Reese addressed the party calmly, but Harold definitely heard a shudder of a previously dormant volcano in his voice.

The other man smirked and rose too, showing himself to be just a little shorter than his supervisor and, perhaps, with broader shoulders than Reese.

“How about we don’t?” he asked. “How about I first rearrange your four-eyed friend’s teeth, and then I’ll give you some work too? That’ll teach you to mind your own business.”

“I’ve always been a bad student,” Reese said.

What happened then, Harold couldn’t quite recall later. He’d read that people who are not used to violence and don’t have very good reflexes can’t often grasp the events happening right before their eyes, which is the reason why the witnesses’ accounts in the police protocols are always incomplete. As for Harold, he managed to notice only few things, one of them being the woman in jersey smashing her beer bottle against the table, splitters of glass and beer spray flying in all directions, then a broken-off bottleneck in her hand, sharp edges threatening.

Harold also remembered the table being turned upside down, glasses and plates jingling onto the floor, someone shouting, a bartender calling for a security. Despite the chaos, Reese was calm and his every action seemed calculatedly efficient: two or three punches — and both welders dropped to the floor, the woman was now howling, pressing both hands to her busted nose, blood dripping from between her fingers. Harold felt almost sick. He wasn’t afraid of blood as such, but the sheer brutality he’d so suddenly witnessed made him cold and nauseous.

Abruptly, Reese took Harold by his shirt collar (“Scruff, like a kitten,” Harold’s inner voice volunteered) and tugged him to the door.

“The girls!” Harold protested. “We must do something…”

“No one will wrestle them to bed now, too much trouble,” John snarled. “The police is going to arrive soon. We need to go.”

On their way to the hotel and up to their floor they kept silent. At first Harold felt numb, everything having happened too quickly for him to process. But in the elevator he started shivering. Suddenly he felt the raw physical power literally radiating from Reese. The scuffle with the Russian mob had felt different: Harold hadn’t actually seen god-knows-what happening inside the warehouse, but here it had been like — a blink of an eye and — done.

Also, Reese had hurt a woman. Not a good woman, certainly, someone not unlike a pimp, but still…

Right now Reese looked downright frightening. His eyes turned furious with dot-like pupils, mouth pressed into a thin thread, vein visible in his temple…

“Why did you interfere?” Reese growled after they entered their suite, his voice scarily quiet. “For an adrenaline shot? I told you to stay out of trouble!”

That helped. Harold disliked being told off, and Reese’s scolding helped him to recover somewhat.

“If you want to protect me, go ahead,” he said sharply. “But not for the price of two girls getting raped.”

“You could have told me,” Reese was almost whispering, which, as Harold came to understand, for him was an equivalent of wild shouting. “I’d’ve taken care of it. By myself.”

“How could I’ve known that?”

Reese visibly restrained himself, either by temporarily locking his fury away or really calming down a bit.

“Funny that, when you behave like Harold, it’s difficult to remember you don’t really know me…” he made several steps aside, dropped into an armchair and tiredly rubbed his face. “Just don’t rush off to save grannies from trees and kitties from under the wheels by yourself anymore. Ask me.”

“Vice versa.”

“What?”

Harold adjusted his glasses. “Kitties from trees and grannies from under the wheels. Well, I assume you misspoke, though technically your version is not impossible.”

Reese blinked. Then grinned. The grin was weak, but somehow looked more real than anything Harold had seen on this man’s face so far. Harold hadn’t even been sure Reese could do that.

After a short pause, Reese said. “You asked about Ingram. As far as I know, you’d had your disagreements, but you got over them.”

“I see.”

Harold felt Reese was hiding something behind his careful choice of words. Most likely it was the reason, why Nathan and he had argued in the first place. But still, it did make Harold feel much better…

Until he spotted blood on Reese’s sleeve.

***

Reese protested vehemently. Reese denied that it was a wound, a mere scratch, he said, and then denied that it was received during the fight. However, it was definitely quite a deep cut, almost to the point of needing stitches, and it was clearly made by a piece of glass, probably by the very same bottleneck. Upon seeing it, Harold’s indignation about the woman’s bloody nose lessened considerably.

There was no first-aid kit in the suite, and Harold was almost ready to make a run to the drugstore, when Reese advised him to call a valet.

In a couple of minutes John was sitting on the table with a rolled-up shirt sleeve, while Harold was examining his hand through a magnifier, searching for stray glass shards. John had very nice hands, muscular and strong. But somehow… completely ordinary. Harold couldn’t even imagine him throwing dozen mafiosos around.

While washing and dressing the cut, Harold felt himself under the onslaught of the memories of the day’s weird events, which he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to process. And god, there was a lot of them. Spotting a tail. Getting attacked by the guys in suits on the service stairs of the library. The carjacking. The second carjacking. The fight in the bar — the dumbfounding laugh of the poor drugged girl kept ringing in his head…

And now he was here, treating a wound of a _visitor from the future_ , who came to rescue Harold from the followers of a _sapient machine_ (Harold being mixed in a creation of that one somehow), and that would be craziness on a cosmic level, if this visitor weren’t so real. Real and, as it turns out, a decent sort. Good person, even. 

“You’re trained in first aid,” Reese said with a hint of surprise, when Harold finished applying a bandage, not very tight and not too loose, just the way it was supposed to be.

“Didn’t you know?” asked Harold.

“You’ve dressed my wounds several times. Even stitched me up once or twice. But I was sure it was a relatively new skill.”

“I was probably insecure due to my lack of practice. My father was a car mechanic. That meant constant burns and cuts. Our clients used to come to me too… Saying things like, just clean it out, pour some iodine on it, it’ll heal in no time… It was easier, the doctor was miles away.”

After a brief pause Reese said. “My father was in the army. Died because of an industrial accident, though. You never told me you were a country boy.”

His voice was soft, strange, like that unexpected smile. It was nothing special in itself, but somehow it allowed Harold to reconcile himself to the impossible image of the self-assured superagent. Actually, Harold would be lying if he said that he wasn’t at all impressed by the image that Reese presented. As a boy, he’d never wanted to be James Bond, but has there ever been a boy who would be indifferent to such a show of unfiltered bravery and sheer physical strength?

Reese had this kind of charisma in spades, enough to bury a tank.

“I never said I grew up in the countryside,” argued Harold, shaking off the charm.

“Well, I used to be an international spy.” Reese smiled crookedly. “I can read between the lines. You should be more careful, Harold, you don’t want me to really figure out who you are and what’s your name.”

There was something in his voice that made goosebumps run down Harold’s back, but he managed to answer with dignity.

“I’m looking at a man who risked his life several times to save mine. I don’t know what kind of relationship you have there… with the future me, and what I’ve done to earn it, but it’s clear to me you’re not just a bodyguard.”

Reese’s expression changed. “I could be faking it to win your trust.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“You sure have changed,” Reese murmured. “In the future you’ll be much less... reckless. Although considering your history…”

And despite all his lack of people knowledge Harold finally understood what was the feeling he saw lurking behind John’s eyes sometimes.

It was yearning. And it was evident that this yearning couldn’t be attributed to him, the present Harold. It was the yearning for the other Harold. It was also obvious that only people with an outstanding capacity for friendship could harbour such deep feelings for a _friend_. Usually this species of sadness and desperation were reserved for loved ones.

“I must be mistaken,” Harold thought. “I must be. I’m not good at reading people.”

But in certain circumstances even truly messed up social instincts are not a barrier.

Reese’s face was very close and looked like stone, almost a marble mask. It was impossible to look at without... Harold’s heart was hotly pumping in his chest.

“Now I’m gonna do something even more reckless,” Harold warned Reese, and kissed him.

Kissed a man whose sexual orientation (and tolerance level) he was unsure about, and who theoretically could easily crack his jaw after such a stunt; a visitor from the future whom he’d met only that afternoon, whom he had nearly left to be killed by the Russian mob and whom he’d almost-hated just an hour ago. Good job, Harold, keep it up!

 

***

_Right after Reese had disappeared inside the portal, Root resumed acting in her typically unpredictable way; she went behind one of the bookcases and rolled out a portable freezer bag. Then she turned to Shaw and quite theatrically handed her the bag’s handle._   
  
_“You’ll know what to do with it. Lionel, you’re coming with me.”_   
  
_“Hold on, hold on!” the cop raised both hands.”How about an explanation?”_   
  
_“If our favourite knuckle-dragger doesn’t make it and you have to work more closely with us, you’ll soon learn that there is never enough time for an explanation.” Root smiled radiantly and grabbed his elbow._   
  
_Then she turned around and spoke to Shaw as if she was apologizing, “Sorry, dear.” At hearing Root’s tone Sam felt an unpleasant icy prickle between her ribs. “By my calculations Reese should be home in an hour or two, and you have Dr. Madani’s number. Have fun!”_   
  
_She sent Sam an air kiss and vanished, taking Fusco with her._   
  
_Sam opened the freezer and found several bags full of plasma and type-o positive blood, as well as some drugs and basic medical equipment, including three scalpels in sterile packaging. Well, damn._   
  
_Shaw swore and started assembling an IV-stand._


	4. Chapter 4

John’s lips were cooler than the air in the room, his tongue soft. Intentionally or not, he opened his mouth slightly for Harold, and it was easy to take advantage. Harold touched his lips soft at first, then, the second time, he kissed them more firmly, harder, bitingly, then the third time, deeper still, exploring John’s mouth; his heart was pounding. He wanted to impress, to show who knows what, maybe, that he, Harold, had physical skills too, that at least he could kiss — but he also wanted to feel. Never before had he had an opportunity to be with a man like John Reese and he wanted to savour it…

Except John didn’t kiss him back.

Harold put his hands on the back of John’s head, feeling his surprisingly soft hair, then tilted his head to kiss a corner of his rescuer’s jaw near the ear… Suddenly John put his arms around Harold and hugged him so tightly it was hard to breathe.

“Harold,” he whispered against his ear. “Please, don’t.”

“Why?”

“Just… don’t. I’m old enough to be your father.”

“You need to invent a better excuse,” Harold said almost angrily. Right that moment he wished the earth would swallow him.

“We don’t really know each other.”

“I rather think we know each other quite well. As I’ve already said, you don’t seem to be just a bodyguard.”

“I don’t know what you think you know,” Reese said, “but there has been nothing between us.”

Despite the acid in his voice, he didn’t let Harold go. Perhaps he understood that if he opened his arms, Harold would immediately flee as far as the North Pole.

Harold’s palms were sweating, but thoughts running through in his head were full of desperate, devil-may-care bravery — you can’t die of shame twice, and one time was already guaranteed.

“I’ve no idea why not,” he forced the issue. “I see how you feel about him. And he… he can’t feel less for you than I do. How many years has he known you? While I’ve known you for only several hours… And please don’t tell me I’m younger than he is, I’m not seventeen either!”

Harold realized he probably shouldn’t have said the last part as soon it came out of his mouth: it sounded almost childish.

“That’s exactly the point,” John said hoarsely. “He… you in the future… knows everything about me. I can’t tell you about these things, because you’d probably run away screaming.” The last words were spoken with a hint of humor.

“But he knows all those things, and he still chooses to work with you,” Harold countered. “I don’t let people close to me easily. Judging by your own words, in the future I’m certifiably paranoid. But I do trust you regardless.”

“Not fully, you don’t. I still don’t know much about you. Not even where you live, or,” a smirk, “your favourite color.”

“A combination of blue and white,” Harold said hastily, “a state secret, really… Color preferences change with age, though. Maybe I’ll have different taste in thirty years. John, it doesn’t matter what will come. What does matter, is right now. And now I very much want to kiss you again. Preferably more than once.”

John’s dead grip became weaker, slightly more similar to a real embrace.

“There is nothing between us because you love another person.” A barely there tremor in John’s voice told Harold that he was ready to surrender. Harold felt this tremor with all his body and it gave him strength.

“Perhaps I do,” said Harold. He distanced himself a bit, tousled John’s hair, stroke his temples and cheeks — John wasn’t protesting. “Although right now it’s hard to imagine.”

An unexpected mix of feelings suddenly replaced the previous feeling of awkwardness — the feeling of power and rightness. Harold couldn't really understand why he wanted John so much — it might have been an adrenalin kick-back, or maybe his newfound adventurousness. But he saw that John wanted him, and it was making him feel drunk. As one of their professors used to say, "you need to take advantage of your youth". Well, Harold was doing exactly that.

Kissing John once again, he thought with a hint of condescension, that he felt pity towards his future self. How could he not to have claimed John for himself? Was it really his old age and extreme caution? Well, nevermind, if the history could be changed — and now Harold was sure that it could be — he would change that as well.

Then for a long time he didn't think about anything more complicated than how to tilt his head best, when to bite, how to handle the buttons of John's dress shirt without breaking the kiss, and what a wonderful iron frame John had under all that soft skin, as if he really were that character played by Schwarzenegger.

John probably didn't even believe it was really happening at first. He began to kiss Harold back and put hands on his shoulders, but way too hesitantly. Only when Harold started to unbutton his shirt, he asked, "Bedroom?"

It took them just a couple of steps to get to the bed, but it was enough for Harold to start questioning himself. What was he really doing and why? John didn't seem to want it that much, and Harold could have misunderstood the situation, and god knows what difficulties this development might cause between John and the other Harold when Reese returned to the future… However, at this point John captured his waist into a tight grip and pulled them both onto the bed, all the while kissing Harold as if the world was about to end tomorrow. Which made all the doubts effectively evaporate.

John was ridiculously strong, and that took care of the initial clumsiness which happens when two people don’t know how to best position their bodies. Everything happened naturally, and nature was a good teacher in this case, they couldn’t have done better if they’d practised— unusual for the first-time sex, although Harold wasn't one to complain.

"Hey," asked Harold, dizzy with pleasure, when their clothes had already disappeared and they lazily enjoyed touching each other’s naked bodies, getting closer and closer still, taking their time as if they had all the time in the world, "do you want to fuck me?"

John paused for a second, stiffened, then relaxed. "How about we do it the other way?"

"Do you prefer to bottom or you're just being considerate? Because I definitely prefer to bottom."

John's smile was so warm that Harold could feel it with his whole body.

"I'd never thought you'd be experienced," he told with a touchingly sincere vulnerability. "You've always been so… reserved."

"Well, I wouldn’t say I'm particularly experienced," Harold felt a little embarrassed. "Although I’ve tried it enough times to figure out what I like. By the by, we don’t have anything here."

"It's a bridal suite. Sure we will find something."

They found condoms and lube, probably not anal, but Harold decided it would do. In reality he’d tried sex with men only a couple of times, at college. But he remembered that he liked it on the first try — this sweet feeling of being stretched, when his partner's careful fingers caressed his behind, and the slight burn, then pleasure-pain combined with the sweet feeling of being filled, and, of course, the unexpected rush of enjoyment, which hits an unaccustomed body like a storm. Even the pain seemed a reasonable price to pay, only spicing up the pleasure, — although afterwards sitting wasn’t entirely comfortable…

With John, he didn't feel any pain at all. When Harold gave up control entirely, John's gentleness made his head swim. John stroke him lightly, reverently, so Harold had to remind him several times that he was not made of glass and yelled "Harder!" John prepared him so carefully that Harold started whining, leaning his forehead against his crossed hands; entered him so slowly, that Harold had to press back, impaling himself. Even inside him, John moved too slowly, attempting to support Harold's neck and shoulders for some reason.

Harold was pleading, writhing, even biting John's hand — John didn’t go faster, he just pumped Harold's cock firmly and regularly, propelling himself in and out of Harold's body as a pendulum, until Harold came, tortured to a point when holding back was impossible. John was ready to stop after that, and he probably would have, if Harold hadn't almost yelled at him demanding more — and so was rewarded with several wonderful, painful and extremely pleasurable moments, when his body, too sensitive after the orgasm, was trembling under John's ministrations.

John started panting, went faster — and then he came, tossed away the condom and almost collapsed on the bed, breathing heavily.

"Harold," John murmured, squeezing Harold's bicep.

Harold stretched nearer to John, but didn't close his eyes, looking at his lover with a growing sense of wonder. Now, completely naked, John looked even more beautiful than he’d felt to the touch.

Harold had taken off his glasses earlier, he didn't remember when, but even without them he could appreciate this tanned skin, this chiseled muscles… No, he wasn't a David, more like a Discobolos: one could feel the dormant, but deadly power in these definite, sharp and heavy lines. Harold also had an opportunity to get acquainted with the live evidence of previous battles: there were scars on John's shoulders, chest, stomach… Oh god, what if this bullet had hit a little more left? One scar on Reese’s stomach looked incrediblу fresh.

"Did you go slow on purpose, to tease me?" asked Harold with a smile, smoothing tangled and sweaty hair on John's forehead in a futile attempt to get rid of the cold down his spine.

"I would never do that," John said lazily.

And just like that, Harold realized that John's carefulness was only partially due to the the tenderness that John seemed to be able to show only with his body, never words (Harold could relate , because his tongue also froze in the situations he needed his words the most). Mostly though, John’s deference was based on the deeply ingrained fear to hurt, even by accident.

"He’s injured," Harold realized. "Possibly handicapped. He — that is, future me. I have a trauma, and that's why John was supporting my shoulders… Damn, I hope I'm not in a wheelchair like Professor Xavier!"

The thought was more amusing than fearsome for some reason, and Harold snorted. Well, yeah, their situation was pretty much taken from a comic book, but no one had any super abilities, more’s the pity.

"You know what," Harold said. "How about the second round with the roles reversed?"

"Half an hour," John answered without opening his eyes. "I'm not as young as a certain someone."

"No, you're much worse." Harold smirked, palming John’s still flaccid cock, which was hardening by the moment.

John moaned theatrically. "My revenge will be fierce," he promised.

"Looking forward to it," agreed Harold, sealing it with a kiss. He thought that he liked this playful John much more than the other one, dying of unspoken feelings, and that alone was worth getting him into bed.

Whatever had that older Harold done to earn this kind of devotion? And why couldn’t he — or hadn't wanted to — give John more?

Harold felt maddeningly, seethingly jealous of his future self, that ageing fool.

 

***

_Fusco had seen all kinds of crazy with that bunch of loonies, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock and fury as when they rescued Professor from the old docs._  
  
_Well, he’d, of course, had a hunch that Glasses and Mr. Sunshine were mixed up in some giant computer network rigamarole, but he would never in a million years have guessed that Miss Cuckoo was actually getting her orders form an artificial intellect. Not enough imagination, thank you very much._  
  
_He would also never in his lifetime have tried to rescue a hostage by tipping the feds and CIA off about terrorist activities and drug trafficking. Or whatever Her Looniest baked for them. First of all, Fusco would have accounted for the risk that the hostage might be injured in crossfire. Secondly, he wouldn’t have known how to deal with the "helpers" afterwards._

_But Coco Puffs was not discouraged in the least. "Thank you for your input, Lionel," she said. "But what else can we do? The two of us is just not enough to save Harold. I would prefer to take Shaw with me, but you are not trained to assist on an abdominal surgery, are you?"_  
  
_"And why on Earth does Shaw need to assist?" Lionel asked suspiciously. "What are you saying? Is Reese gonna return with a hole in his stomach? You don’t know what will happen, that’s what you told us! Or did you lie?"_

_At this point Fusco was seriously trying to decide, if he should knock the insane brains out of her skull before she made his head spin with her crazy talk or before it was too late for John._  
  
_"Honestly, I have no idea," she smiled easily. "I wonder, what She knows… But even to me, She hasn't said anything. I think, everything gets down to probabilities. Only probabilities decide who will live and who will die, Lionel. So please, call agent Moss from the FBI. I’ll tell you what to say."_  
  
_And they did save Professor. But maybe it was all a fool's errand. Because, right upon seeing them, unshaved, in a bloody shirt, Finch asked, "Where is John and Ms. Shaw?" Then, looking between Root and Lionel, he added, his voice full of fear. "Is it the moment when he went to the past to save me? Ms. Groves! How could you!"_  
  
_And he limped past them to the exit — without a hello or thank you._

 

_***_

Waking up after a wild night with a perceptive partner is a joy.

Some muscles ache a little, if you've been too adventurous the night before, but there is no real pain. Endorphins are still flowing in your blood, the world is exciting and interesting. Your stomach gurgles, and it's twice as great if you can order your breakfast to your room, and if the breakfast includes a really good tea and a quality toast with jam. Even if you are having that breakfast alone, it can be great, because your partner is still sleeping his brick-heavy slumber, exhausted to the very edge of what a human body can take.

Standing in the bedroom, Harold was watching John almost hungrily. It was strange to realize that just the day before he hadn't even known the guy, and before the day was over this man would disappear again, only to — probably! — waltz back into his life in about thirty years or so. Or not. If the future is indeed a subject for change, maybe their actions have already transformed everything, and nothing would ever be as before…

"I'll find him sooner," Harold promised himself. "Even if we never have this again. Something bad has clearly happened to him. And, if he's to be believed, in time, I'm going to have plenty of means… I'm going to do all I can to help him. He would never admit it, but John’s scars are not only physical.. If I’ll get the chance, I’ll help him…"

Here Harold stopped his train of thoughts, because he didn’t have enough data for a valid plan, and, as unromantic as it was, went on to finish his toast. This morning, even his own uncharacteristic appetite was a source of joy.

Later, after breakfast, he remembered Nathan and that he hadn't contacted him yesterday as they'd agreed. Well, it was Harold's fault, he simply forgot. Which was not unexpected, if you took into account everything that had happened.

Nathan had probably called Harold's home but of course, didn't find him there. Thankfully they had other means of communication for unexpected circumstances.

Having taken the phone from the bedroom so as not to disturb John’s sleep, Harold occupied the living room sofa and dialed the number of their "secret box", where they could leave messages if for some reason they couldn't be reach other in any other way.

Harold expected to hear the familiar, slightly irritated but undeniable energetic voice, telling him about their success — or rather the lack of it — in Vermont. Instead, he heard an unfamiliar voice with a British accent.

"Dear Mr. Wren," said the voice. "I'm pleased to inform you that your friend arrived in Vermont safe and sound, but we managed to convince him to return to New York three days early. He is with us right now, and if you want him to remain in the same condition we found him in, you’ll arrive…"

Harold hardly heard where he was supposed to arrive, because panic was making him dizzy. He did however, clearly hear Nathan's shaky voice, sick with fear.

"Hi, Harry. They say, I need to tell you to come, but I'd rather not. I'd rather you to take care of… you know whom."

And then the British accent again.

"Your friend's caution is commendable, but we know about the existence of Olivia and William Ingram. That's why I strongly recommend you to visit us. And preferably, alone."

Perhaps Harold dropped the phone, or gasped, or made some other sound, because John was suddenly standing in the bedroom doorway, naked, tousled from sleep, prominent bruises on his neck, looking deadly.

"Hostages?" he figured from, apparently, one glance at Harold.

Harold nodded silently.

"How much time do we have?"

"Till three p. m." Harold managed.

"Alright," John, answered almost mundanely. "I won't try to talk you out of it. But you won't be going alone."

With that he went to the bathroom.  
  
_***_  
  
_John imagined their world, their compact group of "lost souls", as an elaborate construction between symmetry axes. They are all mirror images of each other, though similar to some extent: he and Harold, Root and Shaw._  
  
_One symmetry line represents their skills. A hacker and a killer, brains and brawn (though neither he nor Shaw are idiots, and Root is not helpless when it comes to fighting). The other line shows how they see the Machine. Harold's relation to it is opposite of Root's, one could say, their views even mirror each other’s. For Harold the Machine is a tool which needs to be controlled; for her it is a god to be obeyed. At the same time, the Machine absorbed Harold's ethical principles and translated them to Root. And Root, as a result, also wants to protect Harold, no less than the Machine._  
  
_And then, at last, there’s John himself and Shaw; he would like to think that Shaw also got something from their partnership, but he didn't have any illusions. Their camaraderie was forged on Harold's anvil, built upon what Harold did for both of them._  
  
_The third axis represents their loss. They’ve all lost someone._  
  
_But Harold is their support. If he is taken from them, the construction will crumble. If they’ll lose Harold, they’ll lose everything._  
  
_John was ready to endure many things for Harold. For example, he was prepared to take many hours of torture, go to jail, to die. But was he prepared save someone else instead of Harold, if Harold asked? Let's say, if he asked to save Ingram, who is actually long dead in their own time — what an irony! Was he prepared to let Harold sacrifice himself?_  
  
_John didn't know if he had enough strength for that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the last one, and therefore significantly longer, maybe twice as long as any of the previous chapters, so you may have to wait a little more than usual for it. Hope you enjoy the story so far :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some consideration we decided to put the last part up in two installments. Sorry for the delay! The last chapter will be here shortly.

The bus was shaking.

Harold slumped on his artificial leather seat, watching Manhattan streets gliding by, feeling strangely ambivalent. He just couldn't believe he was really here, at that precise moment, at one p. m. and that his time was coming to an end (in more sense that one). But he wasn't afraid; rather he felt irritated and had a vague desire for it all to finally end.

He also wished he could just think of something really clever and save everybody at the very last minute. Or at least save John and Nathan. Nathan had a son, and John… John had said, "Don't worry about me. If you die now, I might as well be dead in the future anyway." He also added that he had a plan to save Ingram, but that Harold needed to trust Reese. "It’s seven o'clock," Reese had said. "I'll do my best to return before noon. Don’t go to the meeting place until I return or call you. Keep to your room." Harold argued that he needed to go to the post office. John told him to leave his post with the valet, repeated that he was going to return by twelve and emphasized that if Harold stepped out even for a moment, he would let down both Nathan and Harold himself. Then John kissed Harold firmly on the lips and left with the bag of money.

Harold stayed alone in the empty bridal suite, littered with all the evidence of yesterday’s carelessness — the dirty towels they had carelessly dropped to the bathroom floor, the drooping flowers in the vase… all that had happened seemed distant now, almost unreal.

Harold decided to not think about dying and forbid panicking. He wanted to smoke, but the mere thought of a cigarette disgusted him — what a cliché! For about a quarter of an hour he simply contemplated his situation. Then he placed several phone calls and started writing letters, glad that he remembered the addresses and names by heart.

He had just about enough time to finish.

First he wrote a letter to Olivia; a long one, but dry and to the point. A year ago, when Will was born, Nathan had written a will in which he appointed Harold the boy's guardian in case Nathan and Olivia both died. Likewise, Harold had signed his father’s house over to Nathan, and were something to happen to Harold and Nathan both, Olivia needed to know a few things, lest she run into trouble with the FBI. 

For this least desireable but vastly probable scenario Harold also wrote a letter to Artie Claypool, telling him where to find his notebooks with the drafts of his latest projects and ideas. He and Artie had fallen out of touch after college, but he would at least now what Harold's work was about. If he managed to make something with this information, he'd most likely share his profit with Olivia and Will. To trust people without a written contract means to invite unpleasant surprises, but Harold didn't have time for drawing up detailed legal documents, and to give these blueprints to an attorney who wouldn't know a computer if it hit him in the head would probably be the same as burying them forever.

When finished, Harold contemplated his personal letter to Nathan. The question that worried him most was how to lift the burden of guilt from his friend's shoulders.

After some time he realized it was a moot point: if by some miracle Harold would survive and Nathan wouldn’t, he, Harold, would never forgive himself.

So he limited himself to an ultimately unsentimental, but warm message. After some consideration he added a post scriptum that Nathan should trust John completely and, if needed, help him to settle down here, in this time, in case Harold would die and John for some reason wouldn't be able to return to the future.

It seemed he prepared for everything. Harold felt a little better. The reality was tearing asunder, but Harold still controlled a modicum of it.

Half an hour after Harold had finished with the letters, John returned with another bag. Judging from its weight and shape, it didn’t contain money, but Harold was too uneasy to examine what was inside. Well, obviously, there were some kind of weapons in it. He only hoped it wasn't TNT.

It turned out there was also a bulletproof vest in the bag, and John made Harold put it on underneath his sweater. Silly: it wouldn't protect his head, the most likely target.

"Please, save Nathan first," Harold said in a manner which sounded distant even to himself "He has a son…"

John glanced at Harold grimly. "I’m aware."

They left the suite in silence, no embraces or kisses. And it was for the best, otherwise Harold would be in a serious danger of losing it.

They didn’t go to the parking lot. Instead, John dragged Harold to a bus station and Harold didn’t argue with him.

"Trust me," John said when he almost shoved Harold inside the bus. "And don't stick your neck out. Ingram will be OK. You will be OK."

"And what about you?"

"I'm not planning on dying either."

That didn't calm Harold much.

And here they were now, rocking in the bus with every bump and hole. Twenty minutes into their ride, they had about three stops left till their destination, and Harold was still caught up in thinking: ok, wake up, this can't be happening, it's absolutely ridiculous… Why on Earth did he write those foolish letters, as if it was all for real, it would be very awkward if they somehow got delivered…

The bus sadly crawled towards the next stop. John lifted the bag on his lap, took a black beanie out from its outer pocket and put it on. The beanie had cuts — a mask. With one fluid, graceful movement John stood up, took a rifle from the bag, crossed the space to the front seats in two long strides, pointed the gun at the driver and ordered, "Stop the bus."

It happened so quickly that even Harold was too slow to react. The rest of the passengers — a meagre number due to the time of the day — simply froze.

Harold thought it was kind of strange: he’d assumed John was physically incapable of speaking loudly, but this time his order was heard everywhere.

The driver — a young black guy — stepped on the brakes, closing in to the pavement.

"Nobody moves," John barked aiming the rifle at the seats.

But nobody was moving anyway.

"Wow!" a girl about five exclaimed. "Is it for real?"

The scared mother grasped the child and snuggled her closer, at the same time stopping her mouth with her hand.

"It is," John replied. "Do as you’re told and nobody gets hurt. I'll release the kids as soon as the police arrives."

Aside from the five-year-old there was one more child on the bus — a boy of about twelve, unsupervised. He looked at John with his mouth open.

"John!" Harold raised from his seat. "John, what the hell?! What are you doing?! Why?!"

"Sit down!" John growled, shifting the rifle a bit from side to side.

"Or what? You shoot me?" Harold's temper spiked. The situation looked more absurd by the second. "You're nuts, that's Manhattan, in the middle of the day!"

"I won't shoot you," John said very softly, "but I will shoot someone else."

"You can't!" Harold voice broke.

"I warned you, you don't know me at all. Now sit and behave like a good hostage."

His voice sounded so menacing that Harold flopped down on his seat without further arguments. He felt it in his gut: this man, who only few hours ago was caressing Harold as something utterly precious, was now ready to… to do what?

"Do you know him?" an old biddy from the seat in front of him turned towards Harold.

"Met him yesterday."

"Well, young people these days!" the old lady whispered reprovingly and unfolded the knitting work she kept in her lap.

 

***

_Bear didn’t like how it smelled in the library._

_He didn't like how it smelled anywhere without his Alpha to begin with, but now the gasoline odor started to seep through from somewhere. Though barely noticeable, it bothered the good dog, tickled his nostrils, didn't let him calm down. And the woman who smelled like a steak went away, leaving him all alone._   
  
_Then the woman returned, she was leading a stranger with a black sack over his head by the hand. The stranger’s smell was unpleasant, albeit familiar. Bear decided not to growl, because he knew from experience that if you growled at people who smelled like that, the Alpha and the Master would not be happy. They would make him lie on a cold surface, and roll around, and a smelling person would touch him everywhere…_   
  
_But this one didn't try to touch him. He just asked the Steak Woman, as soon as she took the sack off his head, in a very alarmed tone of voice, "Where is the patient?"_   
  
_"Not where," The Woman corrected him. "When."_

 

***

The time passed unbearably slowly. Sometimes it seemed to stop completely, and then Harold would look at the old lady in the seat in front of him and see that she has knitted an inch or two more of her scarf.

Reese sat on the floor in the aisle with his legs stretched, so that he wouldn't be seen from the outside, and made several people to cover windows with jackets. Despite these impromptu shields Harold could see through the gaps that a crowd was starting to gather around the bus. First he didn't think much of it, but then he started fretting that someone from the crowd could have brought a gun, and that this someone could fire. Perhaps Reese was worried about the same thing, because Harold had an impression that Reese breathed a sigh of relief when the blue and pink flares finally showed in the windows.

After several coughs, a loudspeaker on the street offered the armed man to surrender his weapon and to come out with his hands above his head, because this way nobody would get hurt.

Harold decided it was a very sensible and timely proposal.

Reese chuckled, snatched two optimistically orange hand-held radios from his bag (did it have Tardis-like properties?) and beckoned the 12-year-old boy with a gesture.

"Take it," he shoved the radio set into the boy's hands. "Go outside and give it to the police. Tell them there is a woman with a kid in here, and I'm prepared to let them both go if the police satisfies my demands. Shout ‘Don’t shoot’ before you go."

"OK," the boy hiccuped.

Harold felt sympathy for the boy: despite his calm voice, Reese looked downright eerily. Harold felt an almost physical heartache for the boy. He didn’t worry about himself or Nathan anymore.

In about two minutes after the boy got out of the bus, the radio set came to life, introduced itself as an "FBI agent Michael Weber" and asked what John wanted.

"First," John said grimly, "I want you to get the CNN here. And I want the names and the location of the hostages on the air. All the names."

The radio went silent, puzzled by the weird demand.

"What names?"

"There is a woman with a small girl here," said John. "What I’m gonna do is I’m going to ask everybody here to write their names on a piece of paper, and the girl will bring the list to you. As soon as it appears on TV, I'll let her mother go too."

The radio set went silent again.

"Who the hell are you?" asked the FBI agent in a very different tone of voice. "What do you want?"

"My name is Ethan Hunt, and I want my hour on the silver screen," John replied and lifted his finger from the receive button.

Then he addressed the girl, "Well, little one, I have an important task for you. Take a notebook and a pen from this bag… yes, there you go… and pass them across the rows. And you, good people, write down your full names. And try to be quick, I don't have all day."

John made a show of looking at his watch.

Harold was amazed at the soft, even friendly, manner in which John chose to interact with the girl, as though they were fellow conspirators. She didn’t even seem to be afraid really; she was walking between rows proud of an important task. Her mother followed her with a fearful, dry gaze, but said nothing.

The names were collected — Harold, too, wrote his own "Harold Wren" on an ordinary piece of lined paper — and the girl ran from the bus happily. Suddenly Harold felt ill. He started to understand what Reese had planned.

John took another radio set from the bag, an inconspicuous black one this time, instead of orange. For about fifteen minutes nothing happened, and then a male voice, distorted by interference, spoke.

"Wolverine, this is Lynx. Over."

John grabbed the set. "This is Wolverine, over." 

"Got inside, no problems. One guard, shot him, but he got away. Your boy is okay. Holding position. Junior tells me, the bus was in the box. How's it on your side? Over."

"Still alive. Wrap it up. Send the boy home, tell him to keep his mouth shut."

"Roger that. Everybody go home. Adios."

"Hasta la vista to you, too."

Harold listened to the exchange, having forgotten how to breath. If he understood correctly, it meant someone had freed Nathan. But who?! And what happened to those blokes with British accent, who took Nathan hostage?

His mind, previously flooded with panic, now started to come online. It looked like John had arranged the taking the bus hostage so that the guests from the future would know exactly where Harold was and know that Harold was unable to come. As a result they’d have no choice but to come to him… So, it looked like they were going to be here soon.

But didn't they realize that it was John who was behind it all?

Well, they sure did. But they only needed to know Harold’s location, and John had given it to them.

But how could John have known that Nathan wouldn't be harmed?

Because John sent some people to rescue Nathan. Could it be that he lied to Harold and someone from the future came with him? Or did John manage to find someone in the course of the morning?

John was speaking into the orange radio set again.

"Don't shoot, I'm letting the hostages go. All of them, except for one. And I don't advise you to start shooting later on either, you might make holes in him by accident."

Not listening to the FBI agent’s demands for some freaking explanation, John pointed his rifle at the passengers.

"Out," he told in such a way, that everybody immediately jumped from their seats. "All of you, no running."

One by one people jumped out of the bus, while only the black driver remained. John pointed the muzzle at him, but unexpectedly, the guy didn't comply.

"Dude," he said. "Give me a gun. A loaded one."

John raised an eyebrow — it was clear despite the mask.

"You noticed," he said, lowering the rifle.

"You dint lock it," the driver shrugged. "And I was deployed twice. You don’t look a psycho who shoots civilians for his ten minutes of fame. And I have ears. You pulled someone from a deep ass, dint you?"

Harold realised that the driver wasn't as young he’d thought at first, maybe about thirty or thirty-five. Some people just naturally look younger.

"You still need to go," said John. "I don't have another vest."

The driver snorted.

"Go. Your wife may have not waited for you, but you daughter sure does."

"How did you know about that?" he asked with suspicion.

"You have a photo in your glove box. I saw you opening it when we came into the bus. And you are not wearing a ring."

The driver shook his head.

"Well, break a leg."

With that he went out too. John and Harold were the only ones left in the bus.

They heard shots were fired almost at once. Harold instinctively dropped from the seat, John, keeping low, rushed up to him.

"Is this the police?!"

"No," John replied. "It's Decima. I hope the police can hold them back for a bit. But even if there are only two of them, one will be engaging the cops while the other will try to kill us."

"Oh god!"

But John was already tugging Harold along towards the back of the bus, probably, to the safest place. Harold would’ve been more willing to get there, if he hadn't needed to crawl.

"Do you have a vest yourself?" shouted Harold. "Were you talking to your people? Who are they, anyway?"

"Nathan is okay," John said. "It doesn't matter who they are. My father had…"

He couldn't finish about whatever or whoever his father had — a best friend, a sworn brother, some blackmail on a retired sergeant or a debt he could collect. The front door of the bus opened with a grating sound and a tall man in a suit with a light movie-like shadow on his chin stepped inside the bus. Harold fleetingly thought that he and John looked a little alike, though it wasn’t his face. Maybe it was in the way he moved…

The man and John fired simultaneously. The man dodged and hid behind a row of seats.

"Ok," John whispered, "I have only three bullets left. I'm sure he has more. So I'm going to take him down, and you're going to sit here."

Harold wanted to say "No, don't go!" or whatever it is one should say in situations like these, but Reese had already rolled out of their meagre shelter. Two shots fired almost collapsed in one.

Then everything went silent, only police sirens kept howling outside.

"Harold," Reese said in a strained voice, "I think he’s dead. But don't come out yet."

Of course Harold immediately came out: he didn't like how Reese sounded.

Apparently, it was a right thing to do, because Reese was sitting on the floor, leaning heavily on a seat and pressing his palm to his chest. A dark, lacquered fluid was seeping from between his fingers, his face looked pale to the point of blue and mildly surprised.

"Damn you," Harold wanted to swear, but his voice let him down, it sounded almost plaintive.

"It's OK," said Reese with a strange gurgling sound. "It's just a lung."

And started to fall to the left.

Harold rushed to him not knowing what he was going to do. Petty traumas in a car-repair shop hadn't prepared him for a pierced lung, oh my god, it must be lethal… but he was late anyhow.  
Reese disappeared as if he was never there. Only blood spots on the bus floor remained.


	6. Chapter 6

_Farouk Madani had had so many duties over the course of his life he almost couldn't count them all. When he was a son to a prosperous family and a brilliant medical student, his only duty was to perform well in his studies. Later his duty as a doctor was to save lives, and his duty as a respectful son was to marry the woman his parents picked out. Then, his duty as the head of the family was to go far away, overseas, and work as a night attendant in a mortuary (the duty of a night attendant was to fill in the documents correctly and to maintain the right temperature, nothing more)._   
  
_After that he became a doctor again thanks to a small man in glasses who told him to stitch up his associate, no questions asked._   
  
_That man had often since then repeated that Dr. Madani was not in debt to him in any way, but still continued to send his people to Dr. Madani. Sometimes it would be that same silent man with the eyes of a death-row prisoner and sometimes the even more grim woman, who looked like Madani's compatriot but wasn't, despite her knowledge of the language._   
  
_Be that as it may, the unknown beneficiary paid so handsomely that Dr. Madani had been able to open his own clinic. So he always came at the first call, even agreed to wearing a black hood being put on his head, not unlike those they use to grab people during the night in Al-Najaf. All these hoods are sewn from the same cloth._

_Dr. Madani understood full well how a man should pay his debts._   
  
_But even he with his many years of experience of stitching gunshot wounds had never yet encountered a situation when a patient appeared from a thin air on the old wooden library floor, bleeding and gurgling in a perforated lung._

_Had Dr. Madani had a little less life experience, he'd suspect that Allah sent him a miracle in his fifties. But no doctor really believes in Allah or Savaof, particularly not a surgeon. All surgeons will burn in Hell._   
  
_So everything Dr. Madani asked himself was if he should give the patient general anesthesia or if the man would pass out on his own._   
  
_He dropped to his knees next to the wounded, threw his opened bag to the floor and started cutting through the patient's cloths. A dog yelped nearby._   
  
_"Secure the dog and come and help me," Dr. Madani told to the glum woman (he already knew she was a decent field medic). "There is enough stitching for two."_

***

It wasn't difficult to lie to the police.

The case appeared to be strange, surreal: hostages, taken and then released for no apparent reason, disappearing bodies and suspects (one of the people shooting at the bus had been killed by the police, the other continued to return fire hidden beside the concrete block at the bus stop when they both simply vanished), fingerprints which were not in the FBI database or any other database at all… Harold was very much tempted to hint that the owners of the said fingers were still schoolkids or not yet born at all.

In the end neither NYPD or FBI had any idea what to charge Harold with, despite his indisputably suspicious role in the whole affair. For some reason the knitting lady didn’t say anything about him at all, and the driver also kept silent. The other witnesses couldn't agree on anything. Harold had clearly not been holding a weapon, and when they found him in the bus, he was sobbing by the small puddle of blood in a near-deranged state. So, when he came to himself a little, it was relatively easy to make up a story about visiting a friend and a madman who suddenly took out a gun…

Nobody, of course, questioned Nathan. Nobody knew he was also involved.

But the really difficult thing was finding John.

Harold knew that John’s father used to be in the military, that most likely he had a friend who still worked in the same field and who helped to arrange Nathan's rescue. Harold decided that this friend should be close enough for John to remember his name and approximate address from his childhood, and for John to know enough about him to convince the guy to help. But that friend would hardly agree to pull chestnuts out of the fire for a stranger, even if he was acquainted with John's dad, for free. It meant he likely received the big pile of cash on the day of events. And that was the trace Harold could follow.

Although Harold didn't have an opportunity to engage in hot pursuit straight away, he did find that retired corporal several weeks later. Unfortunately the man had already got himself killed in a brawl.

Still, Harold managed to find John, although it took him five years and he had to dig up all the files of the soldiers from Colorado retired in recent years. He got lucky: John and his father looked incredibly alike, Harold recognized the photo at a first glance.

John was not living in Colorado anymore. A couple of years after his father died his mother sold the house and moved in with her own mother in New Jersey. Harold hadn't yet adopted the usual New-Yorker's snobbery toward the neighboring state and went there with no reservations in mind. He didn't have much time though: he and Nathan were launching a new project. So Harold set off at night to be there by morning.

He parked the car across the street from a small house surrounded by a proverbial white piсket fence. Harold already knew that the life in this house was equally quiet, at least on the surface. John was finishing his sophomore year (not especially brilliantly, but with passable marks), played baseball with the goal of going professional, his grandmother was ill due to her old age, his mother worked as a nurse in the nearest hospital… As for now it was a complete mystery what would make John join the army and then, apparently, the CIA, what experiences would steamroll over him and lead to him bleeding on the dirty floor of an old bus…

Maybe his mother would fall ill. Or John would be injured and lose his shot at professional baseball (which was unlikely, since such a trauma would make him unfit for duty). Or maybe nothing special would happen except John deciding it was important to serve his country like his father.

Harold saw the gate opening, and somebody — John! — lightly jogging out onto the pavement. He didn't look like a boy: at seventeen he was already tall, with broad shoulders. But he didn't look like that strong man Harold remembered either. He was a typical gangling youth, with arms and legs slightly too long and knees and elbows too bumpy. But when he started running, he moved easily, effortlessly. He already knew how to control his body. And he was already unbelievably handsome, even from afar, even in the morning dusk.

Harold felt his heart prickling, overcome by a sudden wish to see John turning grey with his own eyes.

Harold gingerly chose the first gear and drove away.

He wasn't going to talk to John or his family: it would look strange, even suspicious. What business would a thirty year old well-off businessman have with a young handsome boy? Harold was going to watch from afar, to look after John… and to interfere only if necessary. He was sure he would be able to straighten things up: he had some means, and he was going to have even more of them later. Harold liked that part of history where he became a billionaire.

But he had no desire to let the rest of it repeat itself.

Grasping at his pockets with one hand in search of a lighter, Harold thought: back then, five years ago, did John ask him to light his cigarette or was it Harold who offered? Somehow he couldn't remember…

***

_It wasn't the first time for John to wake up in the fully equipped hospital bed in their safe house, but he was used to Finch sitting by his side on these occasions. This time, though, Finch was not there, and John felt a surge of fear — he’d screwed up. Somehow a Decima killer had got to Harold. Harold had been killed and had never existed in his time…_   
  
_The door moved slightly ajar and a foot slipped into the opening, prying the door open; the person John had been worrying over stood in the threshold, holding a cup full of ice cubes on a tray._   
  
_"Mr. Reese!" In the thirty years his voice was the thing that changed the least of all. "You’re up! It’s rather earlier than Ms. Shaw expected."_   
  
_"Sorry about that," Reese tried to sit up, but found he was already sitting… well, half sitting. It made sense now that he could see Harold in the doorway. Also, he had been shot in the chest. Right, here’s the tube._   
  
_"No need to apologize," Finch replied, sounding very proper._   
  
_Finch attached the tray to the bed — very convenient. John nodded graciously, took an ice cube and put it into his mouth. His throat was as dry as the Sahara desert._   
  
_Finch lowered himself into a chair by the bed — the one he always used when Reese or Shaw happened to be injured. John stared at him, openly._   
  
_Finch looked exactly the same as he had before John undertook the trip to the past. And at the same time everything about him was intangibly different. Now John could almost see behind his usual mask: see that impulsive, sharp-edged boy who hadn't yet fully grown his own carapace, hadn't perfected the skill of manipulating people, a boy who could still giggle foolishly and even roar with laughter…_   
  
_John couldn't help remembering their night together in all the details. If not for the pain in the chest, maybe those details would come to him even more vividly._   
  
_"I must apologize," Finch started._   
  
_"It was my choice," John said meaning his wound. "I'd do it all again."_   
  
_"That’s not what I’m talking about," at last Finch looked into his eyes. "I meant to apologize for not telling you anything. I remembered everything four years ago and didn't tell you a thing."_   
  
_"What?" For the moment, the pain seemed to become insignificant._   
  
_"One can't change neither past nor future," Finch said bitterly. "This is going to have very distressing philosophical implications, but that's not what I'm concerned with right now. I remember our meeting in eighty-five. After your… departure, I tried to find the younger version of you to prevent whatever happened to you later..."_   
  
_"I never needed to be protected, Finch," John said, a little amused._   
  
_"Except that you did." Harold sighed. "And I failed you again." He raised his hand, stopping John. "I was told you shouldn’t talk much for the time being. Besides, I need to have it out in the open." He licked his lips. "Anyway, as you know, when I try something, I usually succeed. So I did, indeed, find you. You seemed quite allright, healthy and happy, and I think, maybe subconsciously it quieted my vigilance, irreparably so. Or maybe it was just the universal laws of physics tampering with my head, I can't tell." He paused. "I was going to keep track of you, to keep you… out of trouble, if necessary."_   
  
_"I doubt I'd tolerate that back then," said John. He also thought that if anyone could find a way to keep the stubborn brat he’d used to be in check, it would be Harold._   
  
_"Maybe," Harold shrugged. "We’ll never know now. We, Nathan and I, that is, had a big project at the time. I vaguely remember sleeping for two, three hours a day for about a month… And I’d forgotten you by the time it was finished. As if those memories were blocked somehow. Miss Groves told me that according to the Machine’s findings, the Universe," Harold said it with a sour expression, "doesn't allow paradoxes. If I had known what was to happen, it wouldn't have happened, because I might try to change it and succeed. And that is, ostensibly, why I forgot everything. But to this day I don't know if it's my…" he cut himself off. "No, I don't want to make excuses. The important part is, I remembered you only when I saw your photo in December of two thousand eleven. I was working with another operative at the time, the number in question was Daniel Casey, and you and Miss Stanton…"_   
  
_"That arrogant layman!" John muttered, as understanding dawned. "Dillinger! You were his boss!"_   
  
_"Alas," Finch face reflected a strange mixture of shame and guilt, and John decided it wasn't the time for this line of questioning. "Our partnership proved to be extremely unfortunate. I wanted… I was going to contact you immediately, but couldn't — you were given another mission, then sent to Ordos… And later everything seemed to go back on it’s customary track without my active participation."_   
  
_John thought that searching for a homeless and extremely dangerous man among millions of New Yorkers could hardly be called a lack of participation._   
  
_"In those circumstances I found it next to impossible to tell you that we had been…" Finch coughed a little. "That I’d known you significantly longer than you could possibly imagine. But the worst part was that I didn’t know if you were going to survive after that — this — wound. I've been uncertain for so many years."_   
  
_"If Samaritan knew that one couldn't change the past, why did it send the killers in the first place?" John asked slowly, ignoring the last part of Harold’s agonized speech._

_"Samaritan didn't know. Even the Machine didn't know, thought it allowed for such a possibility. The only one who knew for sure was me, and I kept silent… because I didn't want to get the second case of amnesia, this time, perhaps, a permanent one. That, too, I must apologize for. I've been a coward. Neither the Machine, nor Miss Groves can be blamed for sending you back in time. They acted upon the data available to them.”_   
  
_John leaned back on the pillows and closed his eyes. He felt strange. Not resentful or angry, just strange._   
  
_After a brief pause Harold continued. "I toyed with the possibility of asking you to wear a bulletproof vest. Perhaps you could somehow stage the wound with the help of artificial blood, act as if you were wounded for the younger me… I had several contingencies prepared. And yet, I didn't even have time to implement any of them. For some reason, I expected everything to happen during spring or summer — possibly a mind block, since I remember that it was June when you came to me in the eighties… But it sounds as if I'm making excuses again. The truth is — I screwed up."_   
  
_The rough word was unexpected from the older Finch, and John almost chuckled._   
  
_So that meant Harold had been aware of everything for four years but never even mentioned it. Does it mean he’d decided to never mention last night — last night for John, the night that happened twenty nine years ago for Harold? Probably. His heart had been free then; now he loved Grace._   
  
_John didn't have any problem with that. To each time its own. He’d loved another person too — the part of his soul that loved Jessica was dead and buried, and would probably remain so forever. The rest of him he was glad to give, if Harold would have it. But would he?_   
  
_Well, whatever. The main thing, the important thing was that Harold was alive. Even if they would never ever have anything between them — John would be alright with that._   
  
_"You don't need to make any excuses," John said, still with his eyes closed. "Or apologies. You also acted on the data available. I'm alive. You're alive. Everything else we can work with."_   
  
_An unexpected touch came — Harold’s fingertips on John’s cheek._   
  
_"John," he said, "your forgiveness is limitless. And in all honesty, I'm not worthy of it."_   
  
_John opened his eyes and looked at him._   
  
_"Would you kiss me?"_   
  
_"Gladly," Harold answered quietly._

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The TV series gives different dates of birth for Harold and Nathan, and also different dates of their attendance of MIT. For the purpose of this fic, I assumed they both were born in 1960, studied in MIT from 1980 to 1982/83 (didn’t graduate) and founded IFT in the 1983. Will was born around 1983/84. It makes Harold 25 in 1985 and 54 in 2014.
> 
> 2\. All my knowledge of American everyday culture (especially of 1985, since I wasn’t even born then) is due to TV series, fiction books and such. Also, I’m terrible at reading maps, so all geographical and cityscape references are purposefully vague. If you find any glaring mistakes, please let me know, I’ll do my best to correct.
> 
> Warnings: some hostage situations (including small children as hostages) and kidnapping in later chapters.


End file.
